Page 48 of A Banh Mi for Two
“Lan? Ready to go?”
I aim the hose directly at Tri?t’s face. “Don’t scare me like that.”
He pours himself coffee, then gulps it down before fastening the belt to our bánh mì cart. “Stop daydreaming about someone and come help me open. You’re wasting time.”
I roll my eyes, still aiming the hose at him threateningly. “I cannot believe you’re the one telling me that.” Normally, I’d be hustling Tri?t out the door.
The shutter opens and Má steps out, carrying a basket. “Why are you both bickering so early in the morning again? Stop looking so angry; you’ll wrinkle your faces later in life.”
Tri?t pulls out a small mirror from his pocket, dutifully checking every pore on his face and every hair on his head. “No way. Lan, this is your fault for making me age.”
“Or maybe you should wear more sunscreen,” I retort.
“I don’t need sunscreen. The Vietnamese genes absorb all UV rays and make us glow.”
“Oh, stop it.” Má swats at both of us, a smile on her face. “Tri?t has something important to say.”
My heart drops. I’ve readied myself for the inevitable day when Tri?t would leave, and the house with the mango tree would be home to just two people again. Still, I want to hold on to these days in Sài Gòn with him and Má as much as possible. Bottle these moments up and hold them tight, because I’m scared. So scared of the person Má might become once he leaves, and scared of who I will be.
But he’s not bound to us, and familial obligations or not, I’ve accepted that Má will be the only constant for me, just as I’ll always be by her side, the only daughter through it all.
“I got a job,” Tri?t says, and at once, the world stops spinning beneath my feet.
“What?” I ask, not believing my ears. “Are you leaving? Are you not working at the bánh mì stall anymore? Are you not living with us—”
Tri?t plops a hat on my head, breaking my spiral as he adjusts the cap for me, and the instant coolness shields my face. “The internship is with a Vietnamese airline based in Sài Gòn, so I’ll need to figure out my schedule with them, but other than that, I’m not going anywhere. I know you’re telling yourself I’ll be leaving soon, and you’ll be all alone. But you won’t be.”
“I don’t think that,” I say begrudgingly. Am I that easy to read?
“You so do. You’re already making a checklist of things to do once I leave. You plan for catastrophes so it’s easier to run.”
“So, you’re saying don’t plan?”
“I’m just saying to trust me.”
Má comes up behind me, and my stomach flips when I realize I had almost forgotten her presence, too caught up in my back-and-forth with Tri?t. Má heard all my questions about where Tri?t would be and what that would mean for us. She heard that I, her daughter, plan for the worst because I’m scared. I don’t want Má to think I’m scared. I want her to know that whatever happens, she can trust me. She can always lean on me.
“Con à.” Má turns to me. “Tri?t isn’t going anywhere. He’s our family.”
I wonder if Má is saying that for both of us, and that if we say it enough, we’ll start to believe it, too. For all my plans and checklists, I don’t want to imagine a day without Tri?t—just as I’m refusing to think about the day Vivi will leave, back to her life in California, and I’ll be left in this city that’s too big for a lonely girl.
Má’s hand finds my back, her left one reaching for my face. “Con, you don’t need to worry about our family. Let Má do the worrying. Let Má take care of you.”
The words fall over me like a warm hug, and for once, I do more than nod at what she said—I reach for her, my arms finding her strong back.
“Why don’t we all take the day off?” Má pulls apart from me, but her hand is still on my shoulder. “It’s ngày gi? for your dad.”
Ba’s death anniversary, the day he left us four years ago. “I totally… forgot.”
Má’s gaze softens. “Dates are arbitrary. What’s important is how we remember him, how we honor him after his death. And you already do so much of that, con.”
There are so many things still unsaid between us, but for now, I hold on to her words and their comfort. “How should we celebrate his day?”
She smiles, wide. “Help me with the altar, will you?”
In Vietnamese culture, death is celebrated. It’s the crossing to the afterlife, where Ba is meant to rest peacefully, and so families often gather during ngày gi? to cook big meals and remember the people that are watching over us. The first anniversary was hard, because how were Má and I supposed to celebrate Ba’s death? We wanted him back. But this year, the fourth year, I’m finding it easier to accept. To remember him somehow, to let his memories within us live on.
We’ve always had Ba’s altar in our home, his portrait watching over us in the living room. But today, it feels right to cúng—or to invite him home—with the mango trees and the orchids he loved.
